


even if it's scarred or frayed

by inkwelled



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Cuban Lance (Voltron), F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Keith is his Devoted Boyfriend, Korean Keith (Voltron), Lance is a Popstar, Lung Cancer, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, they're in love, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: He’s up in front of thousands of people, shaking his skinny-jean clad bottom to the beat of his newest hit, lips next to the microphone as he jumps around the stage when it happens.One second, he’s belting out the lyrics to his newest pop song, one that’s been on top of charts for weeks since it hit iTunes, and the next he’s coughing. He brings his mouth to his elbow, turning away from the microphone, and he looks down, he freezes, because when his fingers brush his lips, they’re stained red.





	even if it's scarred or frayed

**Author's Note:**

> tw: descriptions of blood, talk of cancer, swearing and implied sexual content

“I'm a problem, I'm the killer, I'm the cure, I guess.” He shrugs with the lyrics, shooting a smirk at the people in front of him, grinning wide when they scream back.

“I'm the end, I'm the beginning, the apocalypse—I am something from nothing, I heard 'em say ‘rags to riches, your best mistake’. I'm the future, I'm the relic, I'm the "not done yet"!”

He runs his hands through his hair, smiling breathlessly at the crowd in front of him, before jumping back in, smiling as skips around the stage and spins, throwing a wink at his boyfriend backstage before turning around again.

“Oh, oh, oh I am... forevermore I'll be...”

Behind him, echoes of his own lyrics come back to him, and his backup singers repeat the same words over and over again as he closes his eyes and lets his heart take him away, chest pounding to the beat of the drums.

_What you wanna believe?_

“All I know, it's too late for me to change your mind!”

This is what he lives for; the late summer night concerts, screaming fans, sweat pouring down his face, the boy backstage laughing at his antics.

_What you wanna believe?_

“I'll let go, let you decide!”

_What you wanna believe?_

He’s up in front of thousands of people, shaking his skinny-jean clad bottom to the beat of his newest hit, lips next to the microphone as he jumps around the stage when it happens.

One second, he’s belting out the lyrics to his newest pop song, one that’s been on top of charts for _weeks_ since it hit iTunes, and the next he’s coughing. He brings his mouth to his elbow, turning away from the microphone, and he looks down, he freezes, because when his fingers brush his lips, they’re stained red.

The words stick in his throat, and he coughs again, and when he looks down at his chest, his white shirt and dark-wash jeans are splattered with droplets of crimson and suddenly, the world goes white and then dark.

He grabs at his chest as he breathes in and pain, like lightning, bolts through his veins and renders his body immobile and he thinks he screams, but he doesn’t know.

His body folds in on itself, crumples forward, hits the stage, he thinks, but he doesn’t _know_ because he can’t focus on _anything_ and there’s screams from the people in front and below him, from his band, from the man with the black hair pulled into a bun that runs on stage, ignoring the audience, and the last thing he sees is those beautiful violet-gray eyes spilling tears onto his cheeks, panic evident.

He surrenders to the pain in his chest and the darkness that’s slowly creeping into his vision as the man cries his name.

_“Lance!”_

* * *

An annoying and insistent beeping wakes him, and he opens his eyes to a world that hurts his eyes, and he blinks against the fluorescent lights.

There’s a weight on his arm, making it buzz as if it’s fallen asleep, and even though it hurts to move, he turns his head to see black hair falling over his arm, and a pale hand clasped in his own abnormally pale one.

He’s in a hospital, hooked up to a heart monitor and strung up with more wires that lead to machines than he was during that one show that had his boyfriend all over him afterwards.

He lets himself be lured back to sleep by the gentle falling and rising of his lover’s chest.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, he jolts awake to a soft cry and he recognizes it.

Trying not to injure his sore body further, his gaze wanders around the room and then there’s his boyfriend, directly in his line of sight, off to the side, clutching at his shoulders with pale knuckles, hunched over, as a doctor with platinum hair and dark skin explains something with a sad expression.

The woman with the odd magenta earrings places her hand on his lover’s shoulder, and he collapses into her chest with a sob, shaking, and when she encircles him with her arms, resting her head on his shoulder, her gaze meets his and he blushes, caught.

She nudges the boy in her arms, and he turns to see the man in the bed awake, and suddenly he’s crying out his name in a choked sob, eyes watering and red-rimmed, but the male in the bed just smiles, unsure, and the man with the violet eyes laughs wetly before pressing small butterfly kisses across his face and nose.

This time, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

 When he wakes for the last time, the doctor is there again, and so is his entire family, and his mom holds one of his hands as his boyfriends holds the other as the woman before him breathes in and delivers earth-shattering news that leaves him disbelief.

She talks to him about treatment options, about visiting twice each month for another round, and he leaves that doomed room to a world where cameras flash and he’s ushered into a limo before the car pulls away with a squeal.

His lover’s hand in his own, leaning against his mother, he accepts it and breaks down, and outside the tinted windows, the world mourns as articles sport pictures of him at the concert, covered in his own blood, and then pictures of today, and scream titles.

_POPSTAR LANCE MCCLAIN DIAGNOSED WITH LUNG CANCER!_

_YOUTUBE BREAKOUT SENSATION ‘SHARPSHOOTER’ BREAKS NEWS OF SICKNESS!_

_NO WORD YET FROM VOLTRON LABEL ON MCCLAIN’S CONDITION!_

_IS THIS THE END OF THE POP ICON OF THE CENTURY?_

* * *

 His boyfriend is there every step of the way, holding his hands as he’s injected with syringes upon syringes of chemicals, holding his hair away from his face when everything he’s eaten comes back up, when he can’t sleep at night and only surrenders to the darkness when the Korean hugs him close.

Every day, he gets tinier and tinier, and he wonders, staring into the consuming darkness of their bedroom one night, if he’ll just get smaller and smaller until he just… _disappears from existence._

He stresses over it for _days_ until one night, when him and Keith are curled up under blankets, the only thing between them cloth and their beating hearts and sweat-slicked skin. When he whispers his fears into the other boy’s chest, and the words break his boyfriend’s heart, he pulls him closer, kisses his head softly and wraps his arms around him, promising he won’t let that happen.

* * *

 The next morning, he looks in the mirror for the first time in months, and finds himself pleased with what he sees.

He’s avoided the vanity in the bathroom since he started chemotherapy, not wanting to see his tan skin turn pale, muscles slowly disintegrating into loose skin as he drops weight too fast for his body to adjust to, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights and wordless fears.

But he stands there, and his eyes trace the love marks that dot his skin like freckles, from the underside to his jaw, littering down his neck and across his neck, standing out like stars in the night sky, and he watches his reflection as his lover comes up behind him and presses a kiss to the back of his neck as he wraps his arms around his naked waist.

For the first time in four months, Lance McClain is _happy_.

* * *

 That happiness doesn’t last long.

Only two months later the doctors inform him that the chemotherapy isn’t working, and they have to switch to experimental drugs if he wants to live, and that night, he wonders if he _does_.

His music career is over, he finds his lover asleep with a alcohol bottle at the table, surrounded by bills they can no longer pay, his mother doesn’t smile when she comes over, and he wonders if it would be easier just to the let the disease inside him win.

_No._

Yes, Keith stresses about unpaid bills, but he also makes sure to always say _‘I love you’_ at any opportunity he can. True, his mother no longer smile as wide as she used to but she always wraps him in tight hugs and whispers about how much he means to her, her _mijo_. He can’t argue that his career as a singer is over, but as the months peel into a year, he realizes that his popularity isn’t the only thing that matters.

 His fanbase is nothing but supportive, and when they expect to get the bill for the new experimental bills, all that’s there is _stack_ of _posters_ of get well wishes from his fans, and it reveals that they _paid for the treatment._ They came together, collected money, donated and had bake sales and washed cars and sold lemonade on corners, and _all_ money made went into the bill, and he breaks down.

Keith is crying also when he wraps his arms around Lance’s bony shoulders and they sit up until early in the pale morning light, reading every card and poster and well-wish and for the first time in a long time, the light returns to Lance’s eyes because here’s something he _can_ do.

* * *

Despite the doctor’s protests, he jets him and his boyfriend around the world on a secret tour to visit everyone that helped him, and he calls in a favor with Keith’s brother, Detective Shirogane for the NYPD, and he gets pages and pages of addresses.

They start out in the United States of course, but the longer flights take a serious toll on him, so he’s forced into a wheelchair by his lover most of the time, but the pain in his lungs is worth it when he rings doorbells and they’re opened to the shocked and excited faces of his fans.

Selfies and videos pop up all over the Internet (and he becomes so close with two of his fans that they exchange numbers and add each other into group chats) and the tour goes on for months, and before long it’s no longer a secret to the media.

Every night though, whether or not they’re in a hotel or in the plane, his lover watches the news. Tonight is no different, and Lance is gone to the bathroom when the report comes on, and Keith is quick to hit record, because he wants his boyfriend to see this.

“Tonight on 10 O’Clock News, we have a few fans of famous pop icon Lance McClain with us to tell us about the artist’s latest stunt; a secret tour to visit only specific fans. What can you tell us, guys?”

The camera pans out to show the couple Lance bonded with, Katie and Garett if he remembers right, and three others, and all of them are wearing their lightwash blue shirts that have Lance’s silhouette printed on them and inside the shot is the ribbon associated with cancer, and layering on top of that is the trending hashtag, _#WeStandWithLance._

The anchor holds out the microphone, offering it up to anyone who wants it, and the girl to the right of Katie Holt takes it, and introduces herself as Shayanne Balmera.

“Well, Mr. Ulaz, I can’t say much, but I can tell you this: Lance McClain is the most considerate and sweetest celebrity I’ve ever met,” everyone on the sofa smiles and nods, “and it was a honor to help him in any way I could, and I think we all agree that it was worth it.”

There’s murmurs of agreement from the fans on the screen, and Keith feels Lance slip back onto the couch beside him. He looks over at him and nods his head towards the screen as his lover’s pale and bony hand slips into his own.

The reporter asks a few more questions, which the fans give vague answers because they swore themselves to secrecy, but they chip in answers for specific questions.

“So where’d you guys get the shirts? The design is impressive, where can I order one?” The people on the couch share a smirk, and Katie takes the mic. “The shirts were custom made by me and Hunk, and we only made enough shirts for those who, for lack of a better word, _participated_.”

The reporter sends her a quizzical look. “What do you mean by _participated_ , Miss. Holt? Care to elaborate for us?”

Katie arches an eyebrow and sets her microphone down, smirking. “Nope.”

She crosses her arms and sits back, looking pleased with her answer, and exchanges a small smile with her boyfriend as the anchorman gives her another confused look. He glances at his wrist, and hastily wraps up, thanking the fans for their time. The report ends and Keith turns off the tv, turning to his boyfriend as the screen goes black, and the boy blinks sleepily up at him, and he smiles, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s all for you, baby.”

* * *

Despite the digging they know the media must be doing, they never figure out what _exactly_ the fans did to ‘help’ Lance, but they _certainly_ have theories.

On days it’s too hard for his lover to get out of bed, Keith lays next to him and they browse his name on Tumblr, laughing about the crazy theories and gushing about the edits and videos and gifs of them, which are always marked as ‘Klance’, and for days afterwards, that’s how Lance greets him.

(“Hey ½ of Klance.” “Oh my god, Lance.” “I’m sorry who is he? He sounds handsome and charming and all, but my name is part 2 of 2 of Klance.”)

(Keith ends up pulling him into a kiss that effectively shuts them both up for almost half an hour and leaves them quiet and satisfied afterwards, and he presses a kiss to Lance’s hair as he sleeps soundly against his chest.)

* * *

A year and a half into his remission, Lance gets his monthly supply box of pills, and Keith thinks nothing of it because it’s the same experimental drugs he’s been taking for almost six months now.

Three days later, however, their utopia of cuddling and meeting fans and watching news reports and browsing through social medias cracks as Keith wakes up one morning to find his lover jerking around in bed and foaming at the mouth.

He’s known this might happen; that one day his body might grow used to the drugs or even reject them altogether, but he can’t seem to breathe right as he rips away the sheets and presses two fingers to the underside of his lover’s jaw and counts how long the seizure lasta.

He had gone to Lance’s doctor, who coincidentally turned out to be Takashi's fiancée when he got his new drugs and had asked for instructions on what to do if he had a seizure and she had showed him, and as he lays Lance on his side to keep him from choking on his own spit, he silently thanks her.

When it finally ends, Keith knows he has limited time to alert anyone before the next one starts, so he rips his cell from his jeans that lay on the floor and first he calls Allura, then Takashi, then the pilots.

They land the plane and there’s an ambulance already on the runway, and they tear a convulsing Lance from his arms, and he’s left without anyone in the world as the only person he loves is ripped away. He’s there with empty arms and an aching heart, flashing cameras and reporters screaming questions at him, asking about Lance, but it doesn’t matter because he’s numb and can’t hear him over the rushing in his own ears.

There’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder and he turns, and there’s his brother, tall and strong and reassuring, and Keith runs right into his arms and lets his tears from the minutes—hours? days?—since he woke up next to Lance and watched his body shake.

Keith cries into his shoulder, cursing the world and God and everything supernatural thing he can think of for trying to snuff out his light, and he’s mad, but the entire time to the hospital in Takashi’s car, he lays his head back and prays, apologizing for getting mad because _I need you, God and I understand if you hate me but_ please  _save Lance._

_If not for me, do it for his family._

_Please._

* * *

 They get to the hospital and he rips through the crowd of reporters at the entrance, yelling for them to _get out of the way, goddammit!_ and then his brother’s there, clearing a path with his prosthetic hand and while he’s allowed past the nurses because he's marrying Allura and (he’s also a detective) Keith isn’t.

He waits in the brightly lit and horrible eyesore waiting room for _hours_ , and he drifts off sometime around 1 AM because the next time he’s shaken awake it’s 6 and his big brother is there, draping a lanyard around his neck that states he’s given police authority to see Lance.

His hands shake while Takashi talks to the guards outside the room, and then turn to him, nodding, and he’s taking a shaky breath as he pushes the door open.

* * *

Lance looks so _small._

He’s unconscious, hooked up to more machines than Keith can count, sickly and green underneath the fluorescent lights that are dimmed, so pale he could blend right into the sheets he lays under, perfectly still and quiet, and Keith grabs the doorknob as a scene of him in a coffin flashes across his vision and his knees go weak.

 _No_. Lance is _not_ going to die. He’s going to wake up in a few minutes and crack a dumb joke and smile his stupid little smile that makes his heart do flips in his ribcage and they’ll go home and live happily ever after and the band of gold in his pocket will not be his anymore, but rather Lance’s.

The room is quiet except for the beeping of the heart monitor and it feels like a sin when the chair he drags to his bedside scrapes against the linoleum floor, shattering the silence, but it’s worth it when it’s all said and done and Lance’s hand is in his own.

The first time he threads his fingers through his lover’s, careful of the wires that stick from his wrists and fingertips, he almost gasps at how cold his palm is. He’s deadly cold, despite having three different blankets laid over his prone form, and in a split second, Keith makes his decision.

Slowly, he stands up, sheds his jacket and unties his converse, leaving them on the chair, and crawls in beside his boyfriend.

He situates himself on his side, careful not to disturb the cords that wraps around the Cuban boy’s form like snakes, and as soon as he lines up his body with the other’s, Lance unconsciously shifts into his warmth. Keith smiles, laying their intertwined hands on Lance’s chest before resting his head on his shoulder, and he’s asleep within seconds.

* * *

 When he wakes, Allura’s there, hand on his shoulder, and he can hear his brother’s soft voice in the hall, and she motions with her eyes to come with her, other hand coming up to lay a finger on her lips, signaling him to be quiet.

The bed creaks slightly when he gets up, and his leather jackets rustles when he slings it over his shoulder, but besides that he’s silent when he exits Lance’s room, pressing his lips to his sweaty forehead before closing the door behind him.

“The representative from Galra Pharmaceuticals, Hagatha Garner is in Room 5A, and is requesting to speak to you and,” she sneers, wrinkling her nose, “express her sympathy.”

Keith sees red and rips past her, slamming the door behind him, and as he grows nearer to the room where the assistant to the CEO, Zachary Kon, waits, all he can see is Lance’s body, so small and frail in that hospital bed.

Laying a hand on the doorknob, he takes a deep breath, tempering down his anger and closes his eyes before pushing it open and plastering the most _fake_ smile on his face.

“Mrs. Garner, what an unexpected surprise. You wanted to speak with me?”

* * *

He leaves the room even more pissed than when he entered, having to had sit through twenty minutes of the assistant bullshitting a response to his inquires and expecting him just to swallow it mindlessly.

_I have no idea what happened with the drugs._

_I assure you we’re looking into it._

_We’ve had years and years of no trouble patients, I’m sure this is all a big mistake._

Oh _yes_ , because Lance lying unconscious in a hospital bed is _definitely_ not their fault.

What is he, _stupid?_

Despite it all, he shakes hands with her and as soon as she turns her back, heels clacking loudly down the silent corridor, he wipes his palm on the sweatpants Takashi lent him and takes off down the hall.

He’s out of breath when he rounds the last corner, and there’s his big brother, turned away from him and talking quietly to Allura by the plastic chairs that sit opposite Lance’s room. Alerted by the squeaking of his tennis shoes, he turns in time to hold out his arms and stop his little brother from toppling over, blabbering a thousand words per second and looking like he’s seen a ghost.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Keith, are you okay? Slow down, I can’t understand—“

He’s cut off by Allura’s hand on his shoulder and he takes a deep breath, beating his fear into a corner.

“Slow down, Keith. Breathe.”

He pulls him down into the chairs, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and coaches his little brother through taking deep breathes and focusing on him, focusing on his voice, and after his heaving stops, Takashi attempts to understand him.

“Okay, try again.”

Keith peers up at him, panic still evident in his eyes, but now it’s not as pronounced, and he leans in, whispering fast and heavy into his ear.

“I know this may not be legal but I need you to look into Galra Pharmaceuticals, off the books. I think this may have happened before.”

Takashi Shirogane knows his eyes must be wide with disbelief, but he nods. “Explain.”

* * *

As it turns out, Keith is _right_ , and Shiro stares at his computer as reports buried under lock and key display themselves on his screen, and he breathes in shakily as he clicks through them, scanning for _something, anything,_ but it doesn’t take him long to find something of value.

He hits print, grabs his highlighter and runs it over a few lines and circles various things before erasing the history on his computer and shutting it down, grabbing his jacket and the stack of papers.

The detective yells he’s chasing down a lead as he flies from the building, depositing the evidence in the seat next to him and stepping on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot and weaving between cars as he realizes Keith was _right._

* * *

Really, none of this should surprise him in the least.

Keith scans the papers with a quick eye, soaking in information about seven different cases of patients receiving Galra drugs and hours later, going into comas that they either never wake from, or mysteriously die days later after waking up.

He had gone to the University of Central Florida for Criminal Justice, dreaming of being a lawyer, and had graduated with a full Bachelor’s degree four years later, then went onto Harvard Law and had passed his Bar Exam with flying colors.

After it all though, after meeting Lance almost directly after graduating top of his class, he was fine to simply travel the world with him and do odd jobs here and there, letting his degree gather dust in the bottom of the cardboard box that holds his ribbons and graduation robes.

He breathes out heavily, letting his eyes drift close and flopping against the back of the couch, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Tell me this is enough to convict.”

There’s a rustling of leather and Keith opens his eyes to see Shiro sitting straight up, eyeing him with confusion and hesitation. “I thought you decided not to become a lawyer, Keith.”

He huffs, irritation rising at his brother’s words but understanding why he’s doing this. “This time seems as good as any to change that decision, and _someone_ needs to take these bastards down.”

“Alright.”

There’s resignation in his voice, and Keith bolts upwards within seconds, confused by the sudden turn of events because he thought—

“—that I was going say that’s a horribly impulsive idea, right?”

He blinks at his older brother, who in turn smirks, and leans back in the armchair, tapping the side of his brain with his finger. “I’m inside your head, lil’ bro. Admit it.”

He grumbles but still leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me how much more evidence I need to shut down the company and put them away.”

* * *

It’s been six months, and Lance is still unconscious, and he knows the question is coming, but it stills slaps him across the face. He’s aware that the longer he’s asleep, the smaller the chance becomes that he’ll wake up.

He refuses.

* * *

A year later, he’s almost forgotten what relaxing feels like, what sleeping is.

He’s up day and night, digging through files until the sun rises in their lonely apartment and the words blur together into blotted tears of ink, and with each day that passes, that band in his pocket grows heavier.

Finally he can’t do it anymore and while he’s visiting his lover that night, he presses a soft kiss to his lips and slips the ring onto his finger.

He wants to admire the gleam against his pale skin, but he can’t because everything about this wrong. He was going to give this ring to Lance before he came off the stage at the last concert he would ever perform at.

He remembers the blood on the boy’s stark white shirt, the screams from him and his fans and he _himself_ , Lance’s eyes fluttering as he cradled him close, his boyfriend shakily wiping away his tears, the way he went limp and how Keith’s very world fell apart in his own arms and he was powerless to stop it.

He holds his hand close and presses a kiss into his palm, letting the fat tears roll down his cheeks, praying to every god he knows to let Lance _live._

He refuses.

* * *

Two and half years later, the journey finally comes to an end, and Keith finds himself jittery with nerves as he straightens the blue tie around his neck and watches himself in the mirror.

Today’s the last day of the People versus Galra Pharmaceuticals case and today will be the day he claims justice for all the people that died trusting them, claims justice for the girl that will sit by his side and testify that of all of those who received drugs, she was the only one to survive, claims justice their families and ending their reign, claiming justice for his _fiancé._

The one he refused to pull the plug on just this morning.

He finds himself twirling the ring on his left hand, something that he (as well as his brother) notices has become a quite frequent nervous tick.

He steels himself for what’s to come and steps out of that bathroom.

* * *

“People versus Galra Pharmaceuticals, charge of criminal intent in the first degree.”

“How does your defendant plead, Mr. Dakteris?”

Despite how his insides knot at the name, and how he wishes he could spit out those words with anger instead of polite coolness, he knows getting angry and punching out his defendant.

“My defendant pleads not guilty, your honor.”

The lawyer Zachary Kon hired, Senaca Dakteris, a large man with an _amazing_ sneer that could curdle milk and vibes that make him uncomfortable—turns to him and quirks an eyebrow. The larger and much more intimidating man turns to him and _smirks_ before turning back and an unsettling feeling settles deep in his stomach.

“Bail?”

“Bail is set at one million dollars.”

The case proceeds.

* * *

He’s up first, calling up the mother of a teenage boy who had lung cancer like Lance, and he wants to cry when she shares her story of her little boy, who loved his friends and playing saxophone and swimming on the town team.

With wet cheeks and shaky shoulders she tells of him coughing up blood at a swim meet, the heartbreaking diagnosis, the years he spent in bed because he was too depressed to get up, the joy of watching him in remission, the unexpected turn when he relapsed and had to be put on experimental drugs.

She tells of the scream that cut through the night, how she ran to his room to find him choking on his own blood and spit, foaming at the mouth, how she sat at his side everyday and was there three years later when they had to pull the plug.

He pushes down the lump in his throat and approaches her, expressing his sympathy for her loss, asks her questions, and then steps down and watches as the opposing side does the same.

Keith presents evidence, sterile bags with pill bottles and their receipts, highlighted documents, calls witnesses and explains the situation in terms the jury can understand, and he sees the pity in their eyes, the fury that this company has gotten away with so much.

One witness, a traitor from the inside of the company, a man by the name of Theodore Hace who was Kon's right-hand man, steps up, presenting evidence of his own while he's on the stand, and when he's called off, he and Keith exchange looks, and the Korean lawyer hopes he conveys his thanks through a single look.

Hace nods once before disappearing through the door and once again, Keith is presenting even more evidence, and the case against the company builds and builds.

Senan Dakteris does the same, but by then, the jury has made their decision and when the judge asks how they vote, the girl clears her throat and looks straight at him instead of reading the words on the card in her hands.

“We find the defendant, Mr. Kon, and the entirety of Galra Pharmaceuticals on the account of criminal intent in the first degree…guilty.”

The room descends into chaos, the girl by his side breaking into tears and hugging him close, and he tries to stay professional but ultimately he can’t because he knows what she feels, he _understands._

The family members of the seven who died jump the barrier between the audience and lawyers and shake his hand, thanking him for bringing their babies the justice they deserve, and he’s packing up, shuffling papers and still shaking from excitement, when there’s a tap on his shoulder. He turns and freezes, because there’s Lance’s mom, more gray hairs than he remembers, a bit more hunched in the shoulders, but it doesn’t matter because she’s sweeping into a hug and holding him close, whispering how proud she is of him, her _mijo_ , and he breaks.

He clutches at her, and she does the same, and he clings to her. She’s his rock in the storm, the steady hand on his shoulder, and he whispers his thanks through tears into her dress and she just cradles the back of his head.

* * *

One year later, Keith is by his loveR’s side when they pull the plug.

He’s crying the whole time, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he signs the paper and dripping onto Lance’s hand as they disconnect the wires that keep him alive.

Lance’s mom, Sophia, is right as his side as he does, and she squeezes his shoulders. When the heart rate monitor beeps long and slow, he presses his lips together and drops a kiss onto Lance’s palm.

_“I'm sorry we didn't get more time. I’ll always love you.”_

The room is silent for three long seconds and then suddenly someone gasps and Keith looks up when Sophia tightens her grip on his shoulder, and he’s there.

“Lance?”

There’s Lance, eyes fluttering and chest moving of his own accord and he thinks he starts crying again and everything becomes a blur of Lance’s eyes and his arms and his cheeks and his _lips_ and he buries his head in his shoulder because his lover is _alive_ , against all odds.

_“Lance!”_

* * *

Lance insists he propose again, because _"I was in a coma! That's not fair!"_ and happily, once he is released, Keith takes him to the beach one lazy summer night and presses kiss to his salty skin under the moonlight and whispers his love into his mouth and everything falls into place.

* * *

The wedding is only months later, and when they both reach for each other, they're smiling so wide and crying so profusely that their kiss is all teeth and salt, but it doesn't matter because Lance is _alive_ and _healthy_ and _well_ and by some _miracle_ , he's free of cancer.

Their second kiss as Mr. and Mr. McClain-Kogane is not as long, but no less passionate and full of love and relief, and on the dance floor, light glints off Lance's teeth and Keith can't help but pull him in again and again.

His mouth is soft and tastes like icing and champagne and from the sidelines, Keith faintly hears their friends whooping and carrying on, but he can't seem to care because--as he wraps his arms around his husband--all his attention is fixated on this boy, this strong, courageous, selfless, kind boy who smells of the sea and radiates light from his very soul.

* * *

Two years later, Lance McClain-Kogane is once again on stage, jumping around and breathing heavily, but he's healthy and well and off to the side, behind the curtains, his husband cries at the lyrics he whispers into the microphone.

_"Oh my love, don't you worry, when the world gets cold, I'll hold your heart when it's heavy, and I won't let go, no. 'Til my blood runs dry, I will never leave your side, don't you worry."_

Keith McClain-Kogane flings himself on stage and the screams from the audience fade into the background as he gathers his husband in his arms and presses his lips to the other's, and he realizes _this_ is his happy ending, _this_ is what he dreamed of as a kid in foster care, one who cried himself to sleep and wished upon stars.

He leans back with a laugh and just looks out upon the crowd as above him, his arm curled around his shoulder, Lance softly ends the song with the words that have become their mantra.

_"Oh, I know we'll carry on."_

**Author's Note:**

> the song at the beginning is "i am" by james arthur and the one at the end is "carry on" by young rising sons.


End file.
